


the work of his hands

by bluemccns



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: M/M, she said i should post it for writing sample purposes, so here u go, that i wrote about mine and a friends ocs, this is also vague sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-31 01:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemccns/pseuds/bluemccns
Summary: a drabble i wrote for a friend and i's starfighter ocs a while ago





	the work of his hands

Pythias had always been an artist. Ever since he was a child, he possessed an impeccable eye for detail. He'd always appreciated the flowers in his sister's garden, the orange-tinted clouds at sunset, moonlight on the water. As years passed, so did the wide-eyed innocence of childhood. He began to appreciate people as well; the curve of a woman's hips, the colors of eyes, the way those eyes clouded over like the sky before a storm when he whispered the right things against sweet-smelling skin. There came a time when he was sure he could play people like instruments and tune them to his liking just by plucking a few strings, but that was before Pythias was Pythias, when he was just Alec. When he thought about it, many things came much simpler to him when he was just Alec. Alec was his own person with his own agenda. Pythias was one half of a whole, millions of miles away from everything he had ever known. His very existence was put in the hands of a man who he also felt was millions of miles away. Not literally, of course, though sometimes he longed for the privacy that would come with a million miles. He and Damon lived within the same walls, but there were still the metaphorical ones that kept the Fighter at bay for what felt like eternity.

 

But what goes up must come down, and the walls around the glacial Navigator may as well have been added to the crumpled heap of clothing on the floor of the cramped dormitory. The Fighter had chipped away at the stone exterior at a painstakingly slow rate; a sideways glance here, a suggestive biting of his lip there, and finally, it all came crashing down and he could claim his prize. His bountiful winnings seemed to be limitless, for he counted each hitched breath, every stifled moan, and every bruise littering pristine skin like violets blooming in the snow as a reward for his hard work. He reveled in the way Damon unraveled, each angry, burning crimson claw mark against his own tan complexion adding to the rising heat that seemed to be everywhere. For a man made of ice, the white-haired male's warmth was all-encompassing, drawing Pythias into an inescapable paradise and enveloping him in ecstasy. His body graciously took all Pythias could give, and Pythias's body, a slave to the heat, was more than willing to supply what he could.

Black waves clung to the Fighter's face and the nape of his neck with the excretion of his relentlessness. He was a beautiful juxtaposition, feeling relatively in control, but at the same time knowing stopping was impossible. He was a prisoner to Damon's body. No, that wasn't right. The metaphor did not nearly measure up to the situation. However, there would be other times for metaphors. At the moment, it was just skin and lips and sweat and Damon. Damon, who was white as marble but molded under Pythias's rough hands like clay. All it took was a little patience and the right touches to turn the navigator into a work of art, or at least, what was art in his sculptor's eyes. The sight of Damon beneath him, ragged and exposed, surpassed any masterpiece, though not even a statue carved from the strongest stone could withstand the intense tidal waves crashing over it, and soon Damon's lithe body tensed and gave in to the tide, pulling Pythias out to sea with him.


End file.
